


hotline bling

by cole (elianaredfield)



Category: Karlie Kloss - Fandom, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianaredfield/pseuds/cole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a soft laugh, “This is a sex line.  Did you intend to call this number?”</p>
<p>//Taylor is a starving musician working on a sex hotline for extra money.  Karlie is a model looking for some sort of human contact in the whirlwind of her life.//</p>
            </blockquote>





	hotline bling

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW I KNOW I need to work on the assassin AU. But it's not coming to me right now and it's probably because this stupid fic wouldn't get out of my head. But here you go. This is just a lot of sex with some semblance of a plot. Enjoy!

“Your eyes are going to hate you.”

At the sound of your voice, Taylor jumps noticeably.  You give her a small, apologetic smile, and she returns it sheepishly, studying the sky around her and realizing the sun is slithering behind buildings, “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Technically, Taylor is trespassing.  Her apartment is the only studio in the entire building, and she has to climb out a window to get onto what’s actually your balcony.  But you don’t really mind.  You knows very well that Taylor’s apartment is barely big enough, and the poor girl occasionally lives two weeks at a time on Ramen and Easy-Mac.  Sharing a balcony isn’t a big deal.

“Writing a new song that will amaze the entire world?” You ask, as Taylor closes her notebook and slips her pick neatly between strings so she won’t lose it.

There’s a raw laugh, “If you count 100 half-hammered people at a bar on a Friday night as _the entire world_.”

Your smile falters, “Damn.  I have a shoot on Friday.  I’ll come to the next one?”

Taylor looks up and you think you see a hint of disappointment behind her neutral expression.  You always say you’ll go see her perform.  Something work-related always ruins it, “Of course.  I’ll let you know as soon as I find out?”

“I’d really appreciate it,” You reply, and you mean it.

You wait until Taylor is safely inside her apartment before you close the balcony door and the curtains.

* * *

Lately, your life has been nothing but plane flights, stuffing your limbs into clothes and allowing stylists to tug at your hair until your scalp aches.  After a while, it becomes draining, and as you settle into your bed dressed in nothing but cotton boyshorts, you realize that a part of you feels like you aren’t even _Karlie_ anymore.  Not completely, or at least not your own definition.  Instead you are the world’s Karlie, belonging to photographers and magazine pages.

It’s a strange feeling, like you’re walking outside of your body.  Even your sisters aren’t much comfort right now, because they’re all busy too and you can’t just form a cluttered pile in one of your beds and all watch movies together anymore.

You’re _lonely_ , and that’s why you’re scrolling through this website, looking at phone numbers and descriptions, gnawing your bottom lip raw.

Finally you settle on one, and you tap the number with your thumb, lifting the phone to your ear.

* * *

“This is Princess.  How can I help you, sweetheart?” The woman’s voice is a gravelly purr into the phone line.  She sounds younger than you expect her to, and somehow that’s comforting.  But it doesn’t last, because you realize then that you have no idea what to say in response.

“Um, hi.”

Real smooth, Kloss.  You’re usually good with girls, with whispering promises into their ears until they open up their beds.  But that’s in person, when you can purse your lips into a smirk and flash that blue steel.  You can’t do that over the phone.

There’s a soft laugh, and Princess says lightly, “This is a sex line.  Did you intend to call this number?”

You sounded _that_ nervous?  Jesus.  You swallow it back, try to sound more confident, “Yep.  I meant to.  I saw on the website that you uh, you do guys and girls?  Is that right?”

“Mm.  Yep.  Not very often I get a pretty little thing like you, though.  Usually it’s just men.  Don’t tell anyone, darling, but I appreciate the change of pace,” The gravel is still there, like she’s murmuring it right into your ear, not just through the phone.  The sound she makes is almost like a purr, “Now, tell me, when you called, what did in mind?  Any fantasies?  Any specific ways you’d like to fuck me?”

The way the last two words slip from her lips makes your cheeks flush, like you’re a virgin all over again.  You open and close your mouth a few times, realizing how entirely unprepared you are, and finally you sigh out, “I mean...none, really.  I was just lonely, I guess.”

“Yeah? Alright then, darling.  Let’s talk for a little while then, and while we do that we can see if we can pick out what you want,” There’s no anger, no annoyance.  But the girl is getting paid by the minute either way, so you guess you aren’t really that surprised.

You chew on your lower lip for a moment, still unsure of what to say, and then things just bubble up in your chest, “I work all the time.  And I have to travel constantly, so I’m away from my family and my house.  And I’ve just...started to feel weird.  I dunno.”

“Weird how?  Homesick?” Princess sounds genuinely curious.  For some reason you like that.

“Kind of, I guess.  But it’s not for a place.  I don’t really know how to explain it,” You admit, shrugging even though she can’t see it, “I just feel really distant, and that’s why I called.  Because I thought maybe this would be a way to connect with another person for a little while.  My friends aren’t nearby and my family is always busy.”

Princess hums lightly but doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, and you’re about to ask if she’s still there when she finally speaks again, and this time her tone is softer, not dripping with that same seductress heat as earlier, “I get it.  You’re homesick for yourself, not a place.  Does that sound right?”

“Exactly,” You breathe out, feeling a little bit liberated, like someone understands you for once, “I feel like I’m viewing my body from the outside, like I’m a bird or something.  I don’t feel like I’m inside of myself right now, and it’s really fucking with my head.”

“I understand that.  I kind of felt that way too, when I first moved to New York.  Like perhaps I was changing myself too much too soon,” Princess replies, and you feel a little bit warmer.  Suddenly you’re glad that you’ve called this number, because she understands what you’re saying, and that’s far more than you expected.

You realize you’re starting to get emotional. all the stress stacked on your shoulders compacting your spine until it hurts.  You lay back into the pillows, your breath hitching.  You wonder if she can hear it, “I love my job.  I really do.  I just wish I could shake this feeling.”

“Darling, it’s okay.” Princess coos, and it isn’t condescending.  So obviously she can hear the emotion, the weight of everything.  She pauses again, and you realize she’s giving you a moment.  Carefully, you compose yourself, steadying your shaky breathing and trying to relax.  Then finally she says, “Now, if you would rather just keep talking, that’s fine too.  But if you’d like, I can try to help you feel connected with that body of yours again?”

It’s obvious what she’s offering, and you don’t really know what else to do, so you breathe out gently, “Okay.”

“Where are you, and what are you wearing?” The questions are spoken in the same gentle tone, not yet trailing back into the one that had answered the phone.  You appreciate that.  You appreciate it a lot.

“I’m in my bed.  Blue lace underwear.  No bra,” You reply.  It almost sounds scientific, with how clipped it is.

Princess hums that same acknowledging sound, “So, let’s say we met at a bar.  I caught your pretty eyes across the room and I was enchanted all night.  And now you’ve gotten me home, into your bed.  And you look so nice underneath me that I can’t resist it anymore.”

Still gentle.  Still soothing.  If not for the content of the words you could fall asleep to her voice.

“And I want you too.  That’s why I worked so hard to get your attention all night,” You reply, trying to fit into the fantasy.  Your eyes close.  You don’t really picture much of anything, yet, not sure what face to assign to the woman you’re talking to.

“Long or short hair?”

You pull lightly on the ends of your own locks, as though measuring them, “Long.  Below my shoulders.”

“So I would run my fingers through your hair, gently for a moment, just appreciating how soft it is and how beautiful you are.  And then I would tangle a hand in it so I could tug your head to the side and kiss your neck,” A little bit of the sultry tone slips in.

You tug your own hair with one hand, trace the other butterfly-light over the column of your throat, “Would you leave marks?”

“A few,” Princess replies.  You sigh out, continuing your repetitive motions until she speaks again, “After that, I would move downwards.  I’d still take my time though, covering your chest in kisses and bites.  I’d brush my fingers over your ribs, and just when you started to get a little squirmy, I’d take one of your nipples into my mouth.  How does that feel, darling?”

You use your fingers in place of her lips, tracing your skin, curling your nails sharp to simulate bites.  You pull up goosebumps on your own flesh, and when she speaks of wrapping her lips around your nipple, you roll it between your fingers instead, “Really good.”

“I’m glad.  So I would definitely spend some time there.  I’d roll the other nipple between my fingers, because I’m a girl who likes to be fair.  And you’re such a pretty thing.  You deserve to be appreciated.  So I wouldn’t stop until your back was arching and you were desperate for something more.  Can you let me know when that is, babygirl?” She’s good at this, which is a dumb thought to have since it’s her job.  But it just feels so nice, and with your eyes shut tight, you’re starting to manufacture the image of someone else with you.

After a moment, when you rake your nails down your own sternum, you breathe out, “I’m ready.”  You realize that you actually are a little bit breathless, your hands a little shaky in a way you haven’t felt in a while.

“That’s a good girl.  I still want to take my time with you, though.  You deserve to be treated like a goddess.  I wouldn’t rush at all.  Instead I would kiss all the way down to the hem of your underwear, then all the way back up to your neck.  Maybe go back over the marks I left earlier,” Princess is back to that tone of liquid sex again, the rough one that makes you much wetter than you could have predicted.  You realize you really are a little bit desperate, as your hands follow the path of imaginary lips.

“Can you please touch me?” You accidentally blurt the words out, like an overeager teenager.  Your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

There’s a laugh, but it isn’t cruel.  Not even a little, “Alright, Miss Impatient.  I guess I could take off those panties of yours.  Are you wet for me?”

“Very,” You admit, squirming gracelessly out of your underwear.  Your hand almost dips between your thighs, but instead you rest it on your stomach, waiting for her next move.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Another purr.  Your eyes close again, and you feel yourself sink into the bed a little bit more, “It would cruel to keep you waiting any longer.  You’ve been a good girl, after all.  So I would find your clit with two fingers, rub little circles around it.  Is that what you’ve been waiting for?”

The words hiss out between your teeth as your fingers first brush through your own warmth, “Yes.”  You draw tight circles, rapid and needy.  Your mind creates blue eyes and blonde hair and cherry lips above you.  You’re too distracted to add up all the pieces of the equation right now.

“But I bet you want more, don’t you?  A couple of fingers, maybe?” Princess whispers, and you feel for a moment like she’s right next to you in your bed.

“God, yes,” You can’t even be embarrassed by how desperate you sound.  

Princess gives another little hum, “Alright then.  Since you seem so eager.  I would press three fingers inside of you, easy because you’re so wet for me.  Then I’d fuck you, slow but deep.  Because it’s better that way.  It’ll really make you shake.”

Your fingers pick up a slow but steady pace, and for a few moments it’s nothing but your heavy breaths and occasionally words of encouragement breathed into your ears.  You throw your head back, grinding into your hand, lost enough in the fantasy that it only halfway feels like your own.  The rest of it feels like the beautiful blonde you’re picturing, and like the voice purring into your ear how good you are.

As you press desperate fingertips into that raised patch of flesh, the heel of your palm grinding into your clit, a soft moan escapes.  Your thighs tremble a little, and as though she can sense it, Princess asks, “Are you close to coming for me?”

“Yes,” Your response is almost a mewl.

“Let go then,” The words are a sultry demand, growled gently into your ear.  You’re powerless to resist, and it’s strange to fully give up control, something you rarely ever do with girls you actually share your bed with.  Another moan breaks from your mouth, and you arch your back as electricity shudders through your body.  Distantly, you hear Princess say, “What a good girl” and you barely register how much you like it.

A long moment later, you collapse into sweaty sheets, rolling over on to your side.  Laughter bubbles up inside of you, brimming up behind your lips.  It’s nice, though.  Inspired by a good feeling, “That was fun.”

“You feel any better?” There’s genuine care in the question.  That surprises you.  But tonight has been full of surprises.

You take a moment to answer.  You feel less distant and skittish.  You feel warm and safe, and your heart beats fast but in a way that feels good, “Much.  Thank you.  For listening.  And for this.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Princess replies.  She sounds like she means it.

For a while you just snuggle into your pillows, letting your body calm down, listening to the sound of her breath on the line.  She doesn’t try to break the silence, and finally you murmur, “Damn, I could fall asleep right now.”

“It is almost 1 in the morning,” Comes the reply.  You’re surprised by how much time has passed.  This call is going to cost you.  But it’s worth it.

You swallow thickly, smiling a little bit, “I guess I should hit the hay, then.  You’re probably ready to sleep too, huh?”

“Nah, I’m taking calls all night tonight,” Princess replies, “I’m going to hibernate all day tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” You reply, yawning into the phone.  There’s a soft laugh, and you feel obligated to make up for how awkward and embarrassing you’ve managed to be at random intervals tonight.  So you lower your voice into the range that’s gotten plenty of girls to let you bury your head between their thighs, “Maybe next time I’ll return the favor?”

Princess doesn’t answer at first, and a part of you hopes it’s because you’ve caught her off guard.  Finally, she retorts: “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night, darling.”

You hang up, hooking your phone up to charge.  You wrap yourself in your comforter, and allow your mind to wander back over the night.  Deep in your thoughts, the fantasy girl you hadn’t really focused on starts to become clear, and as you’re about to drift off, you recognize her face clearly.

Taylor.  Taylor Swift.  Your neighbor.

God.  That’ll make it awkward the next time you run into her in the mailroom.

* * *

A few days later, you call the same number again.  Princess recognizes your voice, which is nice.  You don’t know why it makes you feel warm.  You talk for almost hour, not even about sex.  About dogs.  About tv.  You find out she’s a cat person, and that she likes crime dramas even though they sometimes make her want to sleep with a knife under her pillow.  You find out her favorite color is red because it reminds her of strong emotion.  You tell her about the time you were ten and almost set your family Christmas tree on fire.  It’s interesting, sharing intimate details without revealing anything about yourselves.

Then, finally, you do as you promised.  You return the favor, and it’s not as weird as you expect.

The words come fairly easily, if not occasionally awkwardly.  Your hands skitter nervously across your lap, since you’re not making use of them at the moment.

When she moans as she comes, though, well, you kind of regret not fully immersing yourself in the occasion.

* * *

The third time you call is different.  She gets you off on the fantasy of fucking you on your couch, the leather sticky against your back.  But after you catch your breath, you crawl into your bed, and you get a little brave.  You whisper about your head between her thighs.  You murmur lecherous phrases about how good she tastes (and you can’t help but be curious).  

“Come on, babe.  Come for me,” You murmur the words into the phone after several minutes, quiet but demanding.  And as you close your eyes to listen to her come apart.  

Then something hits you.  It smashes you like a crowbar.

The moans coming through the phone are in perfect time with ones you can faintly hear through the wall next to your head.  The one bordering Taylor’s apartment.  

Fuck fuck fuck.

The conversation ends a few moments later, after your usual “pillow” talk, but the whole time you’re filled up hot with panic and a little bit of horror.

After the phone line goes dead, you remember back to your fantasies, about the girl you’ve pictured fucking you to the tune of Princess’ voice.

How damn ironic.

* * *

You’re out on the balcony watering your flowers when you hear the sound of Taylor’s window sliding open.  You feel panic rise in your chest as your head fills up with snippets of conversation, of Taylor’s voice in your ear while you’re touching yourself.

You pretend you don’t hear her climb out on the balcony, hoping the blush on your face will settle.  You nearly jump out of your skin when her hand touches your shoulder.

“Woah.  Sorry for scaring you!”

You turn to face her then, and you just don’t understand.  Her short blonde hair is a little bit curly, natural for once.  It frames her face, bright with a dorky, apologetic grin.  She’s in a dress covered with silhouettes of cats.  No shoes, even though it’s the time of year where it’s getting too chilly for that.

“I guess I was just lost in my own head,” You reply, flashing her a smile.

She grins back, waving a few pieces of paper at you, “I finished a new song.  You know the one I’ve been working on for like two weeks?  This is it.  My greatest work, ever.”

“Yeah?” You ask, and you can’t help it.  Your awkward smile grows into a real one at her enthusiasm.

“Yep!  I’m playing it for the first time on the 30th, at Club Red.  So if you want to hear it...” There’s a hopeful tint to the words.  You mentally scan through your schedule, and despite the awkwardness in your chest, you feel relief that for the first time in months, you aren’t busy on a weekend.

You beam at her, “I guess I’m going to Club Red on the 30th, then.”

She looks at you like you just plucked the sun from the sky and handed it to her on a platter.

You swear in that moment not to call the sex line again.

* * *

“Hey you.”

The phone answer is so casual, and you know that means Princess...no, Taylor has memorized your number well enough to recognize it, “Hey.”

“How are you doing?” Taylor asks, and you feel like an idiot now for not recognizing her voice.  It’s so clear to you now.  Or maybe it’s just hindsight biting you in the ass.  You feel so guilty for caving in, for calling now that you know, like you’re taking advantage.  But she makes you feel normal.  She gives you human contact that constant travelling takes away from you.

So you keep talking to her, “Well, I got distracted by this tv show about baby goats and burned some cookies today.  Thank god I didn’t have my whole apartment building evacuated.”

“Story of my life,” Taylor laughs, “Baby goats are almost as cute as cats.”

You snort, “Goats are way cuter than cats.  Cats are evil.”

“What did you just say?” There’s outrage in Taylor’s voice, but it’s false.  For a moment you forget that you’re not just talking on the phone to your friend.

There’s a cluck of your tongue, “Cats.  Are.  Evil.”

“I think I might need to punish you for that statement, darling,” The response is in a new tone, the one that means business, that makes Taylor money in this job.

You let her punish you, giving into all of the dirty desires she has for you.

You hang up feeling even more guilty than when you called.

But you still do it again.  And again.

She’s gone and made you weak.

* * *

You call one night, and when she answers, her voice doesn’t sound right.  It sounds thick and heavy, and gently you ask, “Are you crying?”

“It’s nothing, darling,” Taylor replies, trying to sound like normal.  She sounds small instead, and knowing she’s just next door makes you uncomfortable because you have to pretend like you don’t realize she’s upset.  She’s so close and so far all at once.

Your lips press into a thin, worried line, “I don’t know if I believe that.”

There’s a long pause, one that rolls over you like a midnight ocean.  You sit back against your pillows, waiting patiently for her to speak.  After a while, though, you wonder if maybe it’s best to just hang up.  Maybe it’s best to just let her sort through whatever it is herself.

Then, finally, Taylor says, “Sometimes I feel like I’m just wasting my life, a little bit.”

“I mean, my dad always told me growing up that it’s never too old to start something new.  So if you don’t like what you’re doing, why not see if you can try something else?” It’s not much in the way of advice, but you don’t really know how to comfort her like you have no idea who she is.

“Maybe so,” Taylor murmurs.  

Another long silence, and you think you hear her start to cry again.  So instead you bring up a video of baby goats you’d watched that morning, and you talk to her about everything that you can until your phone beeps to alert you that it’s about to die.

“Shit.  I’m sorry that we never got to what you called me for,” Taylor says, sounding a little bit panicked as you tell her your phone is at 5%.

You smile, because you’re not really even in the mood anymore after hearing the tears in her voice, “It’s fine, Princess.  Next time, when you’re feeling better.  Okay?”

“Deal.”

* * *

It’s the morning of the 30th, and you happen to be struggling to carry all of your groceries at the same time Taylor is arriving back to her apartment with a pile of mail.  She hurries over to you, taking some of your bags, “Here.  You’re not going to be able to unlock your door carrying all of these.”

You flash her a grateful smile, wrestling your groceries inside.  She follows behind, laughing about the vegan foods in the bags that she’s carrying, “You’re literally eating grass.  Like a cow.  What the hell?”

“Shut up,” You reply, also laughing, “I’m a horse.  I’m way more majestic than a cow.”

Taylor sets the bags on the countertop, immediately moving to help you unpack your groceries, “You’re more like a giraffe, in my opinion.”

“I love giraffes,” You respond, opening the fridge to store your veggies.  The next words come out of your mouth, without thought, “Thanks for the compliment, Princess.”

Then you freeze, your mouth falling open.  You realize too late you could have easily played it off as a casual nickname, if not for the look of horror on your face.  Taylor goes rigid, like her spine has turned to steel.  Her eyes meet yours, wide and paler than normal.  The box of cereal in her hand falls to the floor and bursts open, and she whispers, “What...what the _fuck_?”

“Taylor I can explain--”

The blonde just shakes her head, wiping at her eyes.  You realize she’s crying, and you reach out to grip her arm.

She’s faster than you expect, slipping away and nearly running out of the apartment.  You hear your door slam.  You feel it in your chest.  

Angrily, you grip an apple in your hand and throw it as hard as you can at the wall.

“ _Shit_.”

* * *

Taylor’s set starts at 7:30, and at 7:25 you slip into the bar, sticking to the back wall.  You can see her setting up, and you carefully settle into a booth near the back.  The place is really crowded, and you know that’s a good thing for her.  A really good thing.  And it is for you, too.  You doubt she wants to see you right now, but you’d promised you’d come see her perform, and this might be your only chance for a while.

She starts out with covers, to get the crowd’s attention.  A few classic songs.  A couple of modern top 40 hits.  Her voice is beautiful, a slightly rough, deeply beautiful sort of sound.  You feel like she’s singing directly to you, and you realize maybe that’s the point.  Maybe she’s trying to sing to everyone individually, and you forget, briefly, about this morning, because you’re so captivated.

Then your brain reminds you of how hypnotizing her tone always was on the phone, and you wave over a waiter and order something nice and strong.

People are actually paying attention now, watching her with attention, and that’s when she slips into her own music, fingers gracefully dancing over her guitar strings.  You down your drink and focus on the words as the alcohol burns your throat raw.

_Red lips and rosy cheeks.  Say you'll see me again, even if it's just in your wildest dreams._

You recognize it, vaguely, the chords she’s playing the same ones you’ve heard strummed on your balcony recently.  It’s the new song, the one she’s so proud of.  Your eyes can’t leave her face as you watch her, fascinated, amazed, guilty.

The last notes eventually fade into silence, and she looks up.

She looks up, and your eyes meet.

The smile on her face disappears in an instant.

* * *

Why are you here?” Taylor asks, when you approach her as she’s cleaning up her set.

You swallow, shifting nervously, “I promised I would come.”

“What?  Were you disappointed you weren’t going to get to fuck yourself to my voice tonight?  You touch yourself under the table while I was performing?” Taylor is facing you now, her eyes metal-hard.  You realize she’s more intimidating than you thought before, her stare cold, her lips the color of blood.  You flinch a little bit,

Weakly, you reply, “I’m sorry.”

“How long did you know?” Your apology goes ignored.

You can’t meet her eyes anymore, “Third time I called.  I heard you moaning through the wall.”

“And you still kept calling.   _Amazing_ ,” She’s so furious, and you don’t fully understand why.  Isn’t it her job?  Doesn’t she risk getting calls from people who know her every day that she accepts them?  Sure, you shouldn’t have kept going after you realized, but the alcohol in your system makes you defensive.

“You’re just embarrassed that someone knows you like to whore yourself out over the phone.”

Your words are biting.  You regret them as soon as you say them.  Taylor stares at you, her anger mixed with hurt now.  But she keeps her head up, shoving past you with her guitar case, “Be glad you don’t have to _whore yourself out_ to afford your rent every month.”

With that, she’s out the door of the bar, and you’re left standing inside.

You just can’t stop fucking up, can you, Kloss?

* * *

It’s four a.m., and you’re still awake, sprawled out on your couch watching HGTV and feeling like a gigantic bitch.  A part of you wants to call the number, just to see if she’ll answer, so you can apologize again.  The rest of you knows she remembers your number and won’t pick up. So instead you stretch out, rubbing your eyes, frustrated and angry.

The knock on the door interrupts your self-loathing inner mantra, and you almost don’t answer it.  But considering the time, it must be urgent, so you stumble to your feet, not even looking out the peep hole, “What do you--”

You realize Taylor is in front of you, in the same dress from her performance earlier.  Her makeup is smeared, her eyes red.  She’s been crying, and you nearly wilt like a flower right then.  God, you’re such an idiot.  Your lips press together, worried and nervous, “Hey.”

“No one was supposed to know,” Comes the response.

Your teeth find your lip now, biting down, “I’m really sorry.”

“Do you know how humiliating it is?  Do you think I _want_ to get gross men off on the phone for money?  Do you think I enjoy it when they...when they ask me to pretend to be in high school, or pretend to be a fucking cat, or some other weird shit?  People have _stalked_ me before, Karlie.  I wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t pay the bills, okay?  I’m not a whore.  I know you think I am, but I’m not,” Taylor is shaking, looking like she’s on the verge of crying again.

You know it’s a risk.  You know it’s a massive one.  But you reach out and pull her in, wrapping her up tight in your arms.  She tenses, but she doesn’t pull back, and you murmur, “I’m sorry.  I was tipsy and defensive and I said something I shouldn’t have.  You’re not a whore.  You’re a beautiful, amazing girl and I’m sorry for calling you that.”

“I wouldn’t be so angry if...I wouldn’t be angry if you hadn’t actually been nice to talk to,” Taylor continues, harsh words pressing into your shoulder even though she’s beginning to relax into you, “I looked forward to your calls, because you didn’t treat me like a _fucktoy_ .  You...you talked to me like a person first, then we talked about sex.  And I didn’t have to fake it and I didn’t feel cheap and then...then it turns out that it was _you_ and I just felt so disgusting because no one was supposed to find out, Karlie.”

She pulls away at the last part, wiping her eyes.  You reach up, palms cupping her cheeks, thumbs capturing tears, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have kept calling you after I knew.  Or I should have told you.  I just really liked it.  It made me feel safe to talk to you, and like I wasn’t alone, and I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  You’re not a whore.  You’re so much better than that, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m so stupid,” Taylor whispers,

. “Why?”

Her face is still cupped in your hands.  She’s staring at your neck, not at your face, and you’re not sure if you’re grateful for the lack of eye contact or not.  There’s a long pause, a shuddering silence, and then Taylor leans in a little bit.

“I’m so stupid because I’m less upset about you finding out than I am that now you won’t call me ever again.”

The words don’t even have time to sink in before she’s kissing you, mouth warm and soft against yours.  You breathe out sharply into the kiss, and for a moment you can’t be bothered to pull away.  Then you remember the gravity of the situation and you push her away gently by her shoulders, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Taylor admits, shaking her head, “I have no idea.”

You tilt your head away when she goes in for another kiss, “Taylor...you’re emotional.  You just said you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I want to do it.  I don’t know what I’m doing but I know that I want you.”

It’s consent.  It’s a solid claim that she wants whatever is about to happen.  So you let her kiss you again.  You let her push you back on to the couch, straddle you and collide with your mouth so hard your teeth bump together.  Her mouth finds your neck and you give her full access, running fingers through her hair, whispering to her not to leave marks because you have a shoot in three days.

It’s rushed and not rushed all at once.  She doesn’t free you of your clothes, but when she bunches your shirt up under your armpits, she spends a long time appreciating your chest and your abdomen with mouth and fingers.  She kisses and licks and scratches and brushes and you just melt into the couch cushions and let her take over.  You don’t give in easily, you hate playing the passive role.  But god if she doesn’t deserve to do whatever she wants to you after how shitty you were.

When she’s kissed every inch of your torso that she can reach, she trails back up to your jaw, nibbling gently enough that she won’t leave a dark mark.  Fingers push past your gym shorts, and you remember the same second that she first realizes that you aren’t wearing underwear underneath.  You’re wet for her, embarrassingly so, and it amazes you that she hasn’t said a word and she can still make you desperate.  

Her fingers are perfectly determined, just the right pace, the right amount of force.  She beckons your hips into bucking upwards, coerces your thighs into trembling.  Moans slip from your mouth, and she kisses you to swallow them up.  She’s good, better even than on the phone when you’d ridden your own fingers.  

When your orgasm peaks it’s sudden and powerful, and you quiver underneath her.  Your head falls back and her name escapes your mouth in a moan, broken, all hers.  You think you see her smile when you slither back into reality, but you don’t really focus on it, because while she’s still here you want to return the favor.

And you do, pushing her dress up around her waist and yanking her underwear to the side and doing everything with your mouth you’d talked about on the phone.

When she comes moments later, her thighs squeeze your head so hard it hurts, and you realize her noises are so much prettier in person than they ever were through the speakers of your iPhone.  You clutch her hips through it, and then you settle against her body, both of you sweaty and breathing raggedly.

After a long moment, Taylor whispers, “I wanted to see.”

“See what?” You whisper back.

She looks at the ceiling, not at your face, “If I had feelings for you or the idea of you that I got on the phone.”

Your heart skips, “And?”

Taylor looks at you then, her eyes serious, “You promise you don’t think I’m a whore?”

“I swear on my life.  I swear on the life of every puppy on the planet,” You say, and you mean it completely.  At the vast expanse of your promise, Taylor even smiles a little bit.

“Good, then.  Because I think I like you a lot,” Taylor is still looking at you, and you aren’t sure if her cheeks are flushed from embarrassment or exertion.

You pull her closer with one arm, so she doesn’t fall off the couch on to the floor, “So what does that mean?”

“That means I’d like to do this again sometime,” Taylor replies, smiling slightly.

You laugh, pressing your nose into her hair, “Well, we’ve kind of gone about this in the entirely wrong order.  Maybe let me take you on a few dates first to balance things out.”

“I’d say ten dates will repay me for my emotional trauma,” Taylor responds, her nose scrunching up with her smile.  Her makeup is still smeared, but there are no more tears in those ocean-blue eyes.

“Let’s start tomorrow night, then.”

* * *

You do take her on dates.  You whisk her away with you to France for a shoot.  You buy her dinner at nice restaurants.  You spoil her senseless and she pretends to hate it even though you know that she’s lying.  

She admits a few weeks in that you not calling her constantly has depleted her income significantly.  You spend the next several nights on the phone.  Not with her.  With several different people.  It takes almost three weeks, but eventually your labor is worth it, and you thank god that your name is well known enough to boost the chances you’ve received to be heard.

On your three month anniversary, you gift her with the stack of emails, the ones where you’d sent her demo CD to a record label.  It’s a start-up, brand new, and there’s no certainty they’ll be successful.  But they love Taylor’s music and they want to sign her, and you know she can make anything she touches beautiful.

“Congrats, Princess,” You say when she jumps into your arms, laughing and crying and screaming a little bit all at once.

She swats at your arm, mocking horror at the nickname, laughing out the words “I hate you.”

But she barely even finishes speaking before her mouth captures yours, and the kiss is messy because you’re both smiling too wide.

You never would have dreamed that calling a sex hotline would turn out to be the best decision you’ve ever made.

 


End file.
